Code(95)

We were securing a plywood sheet over the Stolowitskis’ bay window. Neighbors worked all around us, everyone pitching in to fortify the ten lonely townhouses perched on the neck of Morris Island.

The mood was cooperative, but with an undercurrent of tension. Katelyn was a monster. Morris was exposed and sitting smack in her path. No one really knew if our homes—built on the remnants of a Civil War outpost—could withstand a Category Four beat down.

Like it or not, we’d soon find out.

“You okay, Tor?” Shelton had a sandbag on one shoulder, hauled up from the beach. “We don’t have time for an ER run.”

“We could amputate,” Hi suggested. “Shelton, get the whiskey.”

“Comedians, the both of you.” I descended the rungs and hopped onto the ground.

I glanced at my unit. Coop’s nose pressed against our bay window. He yapped, scratching at the glass with his paws.

Sorry, boy. You’ve gotta hang inside today.

“That’s the last one,” Hi said. “Does Kit still need us to stow the grill?”

“Your dad took care of it,” Shelton replied. “I think we’re almost done.”

“Thank God.” Hi plopped down on his front steps. “My body’s not designed for manual labor.”

I resisted the opening. But he was right. It had been a long afternoon.

We’d had a neighborhood meeting to coordinate weatherproofing efforts, and to make sure everyone had transportation off the island. Then the boys and I had snuck out to the bunker. It took three sweaty hours, but our clubhouse was sealed tight. We hoped.

Back at the compound, dozens of tasks needed doing. Boarding windows. Securing garage doors. Moving deck furniture inside. Ben and his dad were running boats to the leeward side of Isle of Palms. Only their two vessels, Hugo and Sewee, were still docked at our pier.

Having chosen her target, Hurricane Katelyn was picking up speed. Each new report confirmed a direct hit on Charleston.

Our parents worked quickly, trying to hide their anxiety. Departure was first thing the following morning. Kit had been forced to ride out a hurricane before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.

My conscience ate at me all day long. Every hour we’d wasted hammering plywood should’ve been spent hunting the Gamemaster. But the tasks had to be done. It had been impossible to get away.

Threats or no threats, I was starting to feel very guilty about not calling the police. If the Gamemaster escaped, was it our fault?

I was icing my hand when two figures rounded the corner of our building. The surprise made me forget my throbbing thumb.

“What are they doing here?” Hi hissed.

“Not good.” Shelton reached for his earlobe. “Whatever they want, I’m not going to like it.”

Spotting me, Jason hurried over. Chance followed at a leisurely pace.

I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jason replied. “But we thought you should know right away.”

“Know what?” My eyes flicked to Chance, but his face revealed nothing.

“I slept at Chance’s place last night. My phone died, and I didn’t recharge it until I got home this morning. That’s when I noticed a message from Greg Kirkham, the guy I called last week about the swab you wanted analyzed.”

“Okay.” But I didn’t see why Kirkham mattered. Eric Marchant had already contacted me and determined the accelerant was diesel fuel.

“Kirkham works in the crime lab with Marchant.” Jason’s forehead crinkled. “Get this—he’d called to apologize for not getting back to me about the swab. He said Marchant hadn’t been to work for a week.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I spoke to Marchant on Monday. Met him, actually.”

Hi squinted at me. “When did Marchant first contact you?”

“Last Friday, the day of Jason’s party. He called and told me the swab from the Castle Pinckney cache was coated with diesel fuel. Then we went to the firing range the next morning and gave him the snare gun and bullet fragments.”

I turned back to Jason. “I called Marchant’s office on Monday, but he didn’t answer so I left a message. But he called right back, and I met him at the coffee shop.”


Jason looked uneasy. “Kirkham said Marchant hadn’t been at the lab all this week. Said he isn’t returning calls or emails. Yesterday someone went by his apartment where he lives alone. He wasn’t home and his mailbox was overflowing.”

At that moment, Ben came striding up the hill from the dock. Frowning at Jason and Chance, he tugged Shelton’s elbow and drew him aside. I ignored their whispered conference, perplexed by Jason’s report.

“Why would Marchant skip work?” I asked. “I personally saw him on Monday, and he didn’t say anything about taking time off or leaving town.”

Hi began to fidget. “How’d he analyze our swab without using the crime lab?”

Good point. Something wasn’t right.

Glancing at Chance, I saw a frown that mirrored my own.

“I asked Kirkham that,” Jason answered. “He said there’s no record of any analysis. He said normally that wouldn’t raise eyebrows, since the test is inexpensive and the project was off the books. But Kirkham claimed that Marchant always logs his machine time.”